The Day the Music Died
by daled73
Summary: Dumbeldore had everyone dancing to his tune, until there came, "the Day The Music Died".


The Day the Music Died

By Dale Ravenclaw

_Of course you know that 'She Who Must Be Named" owns Harry Potter, not me. Neither do I own Wolfram & Hart, though I not sure if they own me or not. This story explores what really competent legal counsel, available at a discrete London Office, might have done for poor "Harry bloody Potter". _

_Dumbledore had pretty much everyone dancing to his tune, Fudge notwithstanding, but then came, "The Day the Music Died"._

**Part the First: Prologue, at the Ministry**

The minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge was having a good day. His efforts to discredit Potter and Dumbledore were fast bearing fruit, and there was no doubt that soon he would be consolidating his control over Hogwarts, and the Wizengamot, too.

The day took a sudden downturn when his secretary, in spite of orders to deflect anyone wanting to see him this morning, came into the room and told him he had a visitor who could not be kept waiting.

A middle-aged man in muggle attire followed her, without waiting for his permission. That man nevertheless got Fudge's full attention, since it appeared that what he was wearing must have cost more than his annual salary plus the largest bribe Fudge had ever received.

The man walked past the Secretary up to Fudge's desk and sat down. Not in any of the office's chairs, designed to put anyone sitting in them at a disadvantage.

No as he sat, on what appeared to be nothing at all, a monstrously impressive chair appeared behind him.

The chair's body was carved of black walnut wood that looked as if it belonged in the stocks of museum quality antique firearms. Such wood could not now be purchased at any price, though Fudge neither knew nor cared. Lovers of fine wood would have been collecting drool on their chins in the presence of that chair. Every surface of it was carved with figures, runes, and Merlin-knew what all.

The upholstery on the chair matched the frame. Fine Corinthian leather, hand softened by pulling it through special wooden tools, daily, for a lifetime, graced the incomparable wood. (Of course, if you have minions who have all eternity to soften leather for you …)

From the briefcase he carried, which had probably cost Fudge's annual salary (without the bribes) the man produced a number of documents, and by some slight of hand appeared to conjure a business card between his fingers. This he delicately laid upon the Minister's empty desktop. Fudge stared at for a few minutes, as a rime of frost formed around its edges.

After an excessively long period of dazed staring, Fudge looked up to see his Secretary, obviously waiting for orders.

"Have Undersecretary Umbridge join us," he managed to mutter, loud enough to be heard.

"You would have been wiser to wait a while and then summon those who are involved in today's business Minister," said the man.

"My Undersecretary is fully involved in anything we need to discuss." blustered Fudge. An Evil Grin™ appeared on the muggle's face and he murmured "Perhaps as a side dish." He then sat back at his ease, waiting the under toady, err secretary.

Sitting on a curtain of Fudge's office was a strangely marked beetle, in reality a reporter for the Daily Profit, err, Prophet. Sensing that this man would give her LOTS of copy, she carefully flew around the room settling on his back collar. The Evil Grin™ again crossed the man's face, so briefly Fudge missed it completely. However nothing gave away to Rita Skeeter that she had been detected.

Finally Madam Umbridge waddled into the office and stood behind Fudge wondering why a muggle was in the office, and sure it must have taken a huge bribe to arrange. Her nauseous pink cardigan clashed with the dark red robe she affected today.

Taking the sheaf of documents from atop his briefcase, the man began placing them one, by one, in front of the minister.

"Let's get to business shall we?" he inquired, in a tone that indicated anything else was not really an option. The mellow rich baritone flow of his voice made Fudge want to weep; it was every politician's dream voice.

"First we have the Emancipation of Lord Harry James Potter. Since he is de facto and de jure Head of House Potter, that has been his right since he was eleven years old."

"Next we have the lineage, certified through the College of Heralds, and countersigned by Lord Lyon King of Arms, attesting to his rank, station, and estate, as Thane of Athol. Here is a similar one for his Peerage as the Earl of Ross."

Minister Fudge sputtered "Now see here…", but the sputtering stopped abruptly, at the frown of the muggle dressed man (who just HAD to be a powerful wizard to do those things, wandlessly and silently, too).

"Actually," the man said, looking over Fudge's shoulder directly at Umbridge, "I have already seen 'here', and frankly it is pretty bloody ugly."

The scarlet ampersand in the center of the largest line on the business card seemed to be demanding Fudge's attention, since he had not really bothered to read it.

**Wolfram & Hart**

**Attorneys at Law**

Beneath that were several smaller lines of muggle nonsense, so Fudge ignored them.

The same touch of blood red seemed to flash briefly from the immaculate white French cuff of the muggle's shirt, until he focused on it long enough to see it was a pigeon's blood ruby cufflink. Probably 25,000 galleons for the pair, he thought, I should be able to extort some real money out of this if I can't avoid doing it.

"Minister Fudge, if you wish to leave this office alive and return to your home, either you or your pet toady, you will now summon the proper department heads to notarize and seal these documents. Should I need to leave here without those, you two will be traveling with me to meet one of the Senior Partners of my firm.

No one in the DMLE here will ever have a clue where you went. I'm sure your successor in office, under such circumstances, will be much more amenable to doing their jobs, and without visions of bribes; bribes that Wolfram & Hart does not pay."

The man had never raised his voice above the quiet businesslike level he had first spoken at, but something about the card, now definitely frozen solid onto his desk made Fudge feel he was on the verge of soiling himself.

Behind him Umbridge was looking daggers at the muggle when suddenly her guts cut loose with a rumble, she passed excessively rank gas, followed closely by the content of her bowels running down both legs. The muggle looked at her with another Evil Grin ™, as if he acknowledged causing that, and suddenly an icy knife of fear was buried in her now empty abdomen. But she was unable to move beyond breathing. At the moment she almost wished she couldn't breath. So did Fudge.

Fudge summoned the proper persons with orders to bring their seals with them, and shortly all was done as the imperious muggle said it would be, and copies of documents were made for the Ministry's Records. Although they didn't know who he was, the Department heads, who had all seen (and smelled) the puddle Delores was standing in, fully intended to heed the muggle's warning that those documents were not to "disappear". Then, holding all of the original documents, he did. His chair was gone, too.

And as he traversed over the Lake of Eternal Fire™ on his way to report, Barrister Murrow did a barrel roll and Rita Skeeter, her delicate wings and legs vaporized in the flaming breath of the lake, which did nothing to her 'steed', dropped free of him and hit the boiling lava, which did not have the courtesy to incinerate her, but left her bobbing (and burning) forever.

**Part the Second: Pulling the Bee's Stinger**

Albus Dumbledore was having a good day. He had no inkling that the world he knew was about to literally crash and burn, on his head, and all around him. He was returning from an excellent lunch in the Great Hall. The elves had provided his favorite lemon pudding as the sweet. To all expectations of his, all was right with the world.

As he entered the confines of his oh-so-private Headmaster's office, his entire world went massively _"TILT"._

Sitting in a luxurious chair, elaborately carved black walnut, upholstered in fine cream-colored Corinthian leather, was a dapper looking man of indeterminate middle age. No such CHAIR existed within the walls of Hogwarts, or it would most certainly have been Albus' chair! No such MAN _**should**_ exist within Hogwarts, certainly without Albus being aware of the fact!

The stranger sat relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world, and it was his to spend as he saw fit. His moderately long hair was well groomed, and he was wearing a suit that absolutely screamed wealth (even if Albus didn't recognize the style). A briefcase of equivalent quality sat closed upon his lap.

The stranger gave him a non-chalant look over, taking in the hideous orange and purple robes of the Headmaster, complete with the golden snitches flying around the hem and cuffs. The garish clash of colors finally elicited the languorous raising of one eyebrow towards the man's dark hair, swept straight back from his high forehead. Then he spoke.

"Mr. Albus Dumbledore." It was not a question, just a statement of fact, spoken in a rich baritone voice that would have made opera lovers weep. "Sit down, please. We have a great many things to go over this afternoon."

Shaking himself free of the shock that had him frozen in his own door, Albus walked slowly behind his desk and sat with practiced ease and grace, giving no outward sign of the ringing alarms and screaming sirens going off in his head. In spite of the impossibility of it all, this person was indubitably in his office, in a chair that probably cost several years worth of tuition of all the students at Hogwarts. And though he could detect no magic he recognized being at work, all of the portraits of prior Heads were sound asleep, even Phineas, and the Sorting Hat was quietly snoring on his high shelf. Albus felt as if his own magic was somehow damped, though he would deny such a thing was possible.

Albus tried to summon a staff elf to bring some tea, but absolutely nothing happened.

The insolent man who dared invade Albus space, in no great rush it seemed, opened his briefcase and removed some folded, legal looking papers which he laid atop the case, as if to hand them over to the Headmaster. Instead of doing that, however, he produced, seemingly from thin air, a business card that he reached over to place on Albus' desk, perfectly aligned with his blotter.

The card was thick, expensive stock, of such an onyx black background that it seemed to almost absorb light from all around itself. In snow-white print, except for the single scarlet ampersand, were words Albus had, most certainly, never thought to see.

**WOLFRAM & HART**

**Attorneys at Law**

**New York, Los Angeles, Rio de Janeiro, Paris, London, Rome, Podgorica, Ankara, Cairo, Johannesburg, Moscow, New Delhi, Beijing, Shangri-La, Ulan Bator, Hanoi, Tokyo, Sydney**

Albus had tangled with many lawyers, muggle and magical, over the course of his long life. Tonks and Tonks had given him much grief in magical matters over the years. Dewey, Cheetham, and Howe were particularly brutal foes, in a courtroom, or across a conference table. Vitale, Horowitz, Riordan, and Schechter were fierce foes to confront on any matter.

But Wolfram and Hart! _**They**_ were in another dimension altogether, if he had understood any part of the scurrilous rumors and nasty innuendos that he had heard over the decades of a long and moderately (if secretly) debauched lifetime. Never had he met, or thought to meet, any of their associates, minions, or agents-provocateur, as some would have it.

He reached out a surprisingly steady hand and ran a finger over the perfectly placed card. He wasn't too surprised to feel intense cold, almost as if the card itself were made of dry ice. He remembered a tale he had deprecated when it was told him, that when W&H fired an employee, they really fired him, as in "burned him to ashes" fired!

He had already engaged his internal "emergency override"; he gave no sign that his heart was hammering like it was going to burst. He remembered encountering a muggle saying some years back, "Never let them see you sweat!" At the moment he was trying desperately to abide by it.

"And you are?" He was gratified, but surprised, that his voice was steady and calm sounding, betraying nothing of his inner turmoil.

"Linwood Murrow, Junior Partner." The rich baritone voice sounded again, and the fact that he said "Partner" shook Dumbledore even deeper. If what he had heard about the _**Senior**_ Partners bore any relationship to the truth, however distant . . .

He recalled seeing an advertisement for a movie on one of his excursions into muggle London "The Devil Wears Prada." Though he hadn't seen the movie, and he didn't know quite what "Prada" was, he thought the title singularly appropriate now. Mr. Murrow sat there, immaculately dressed in black suit, snowy white shirt, his tie of such dark blue silk it might have been black, too, with spots of fresh blood seemingly staining his starched, white French cuffs. Actually, there were gaudy (expensive) 'pigeon's blood' ruby cufflinks, provided the only "color" about him at all.

The blood spots moved, as manicured fingers picked up one of those folded, legal papers and placed in on the desk within Dumbledore's easy reach.

"Our first item of business Mr. Dumbledore". Picking up the document, he was surprised it was a parchment, that he had been handed, he unfolded it to see an edict from Gringott's revoking his status as "conservator and (de facto) guardian ad litem" of one Harry James Potter, Esquire, and oh-so-politely requesting that all funds, papers, vault keys, and any and all other family property which he had in his keeping, or under his control, be returned forth with to the Potter family account manager, Bonebreaker. How long they would remain polite, was not something he really wanted to test, loath as he was to surrender most of what was asked for.

Albus carefully read through the parchment twice before placing it delicately on his desk.

"Just what, might one inquire, does a firm like Wolfram and Hart have to do with my ward, Harry James Potter?"

"Your _**former**_ ward," came the baritone's gentle reply. "That is another item on today's agenda."

Parchments bearing the seals of the Ministry's several departments concerned were passed over, indicating that the Magical Guardianship of Harry James Potter had been ended with the filing of the proper forms claiming his rightful emancipation as de facto and de jure Head of House Potter, Earl of Ross, and Thane of Athol. At that, even Dumbledore couldn't prevent a slight gasp of breath, as even he had not been aware of the peerages claimed, and apparently substantiated.

A different sheaf of papers were passed across the desk, showing the Potter heir's legal emancipation, in the Crown Court, and his Crown confirmed legal independence from all forms of guardianship and custody, whether specified or not, in the listings.

"You will find it to your advantage to comply with the Goblins request immediately, as your personal and school accounts are all frozen until they have deemed the first order complied with." That was a body blow even Albus couldn't fully conceal.

"Further, any future attempt, by you or anyone else, to place charms, hexes, or curses upon Lord Potter, or to administer him potions, will have exceedingly negative consequences for the caster or potioner. It took even us quite some time to unwind and undo the many illegal charms that had accumulated over the years and to purge his system of the illegal potions. In short, you, your minions, errand runners, and lackeys will stay far away from Lord Potter and his home and his other properties. He knows them all now and have all been reclaimed, after being cleansed of the interfering magic you have tried to use to block his access all these years."

"You should inform the Heir of Malfoy of his imminent peril."

The immaculately dressed man rose and his beautiful chair simply vanished, as if it had never existed.

"Here are a few additional writs and various items which buttress the orders from the Ministry and the Crown, just in case you have delusions of finding a loophole somewhere." The rest of the papers and parchments were placed on the desk with a whisper, which might as well have been the trump of doom.

"I trust you will not make it necessary for myself of any of our other … emissaries … to pay you a visit in the future."

"Why," Albus finally croaked, his voice finally giving away his shock and horror, "are you doing this?"

"Well, Mr. Dumbledore, you might be surprised to learn it, but even Wolfram and Hart have standards."

You, mister "Leader of the Light", you have reached the point where YOU disgust US. We have taken Mr. Potter's representation on pro bono, in order to teach you that there are lines NO ONE should cross, and you have crossed them all. Oh yes, Fawkes, you too are free to go now" as he gestured in the direction of the Phoenix who immediately flamed into nothingness.

And with no sound at all, the immaculately dressed man, simply wasn't there anymore. None of the vaunted Hogwarts wards so much as twitched. Albus

Dumbledore sat and contemplated his ruined plans and all the grief he had caused for Mr. Potter, now to no end at all.

And for once, even he had no intention of trying anything.

Wolfram & Hart!

But he did have the satisfaction of imagining the next business call that surely MUST be on Barrister Murrow's agenda, at the current residence, hideout, whatever of Tom Marvolo Riddle, where Tommy would find out what the REAL Dark Lords of the universe were like! For surely Tom would not submit easily; a visit paid him from one of the _**Senior Partners**_ of Wolfram and Hart would probably eliminate any future troubles from that quarter.

**Some** things were beyond the power of even Horcruxes to help with.

H. P. Lovecraft had heard whispers about Wolfram and Hart before he started writing, or so Albus had once been told on good authority.

And in spite of everything, Albus smiled. The "power he knew not", a 'law firm'.

**Part the Third: An Evening with Tommy Riddle**

Thomas Marvolo Riddle was having a good day. All of his plans were working, almost flawlessly. The more so, given the flawed quality of most of his servants, although 'minions' was a more accurate description.

Few of them had the ability to make a workable plan on their own, and fewer still could adapt to something going wrong with the plan. But such was the cowardice and ineptness of his opposition than almost never did his plans fail.

Lord Voldemort, as he styled himself, was sitting on his "throne" chair, imagining his next set of moves. Suddenly a muggle, of all things, appeared before him sitting in a magnificent chair. It made Tom's throne look like a rubbish heap reject. The appearance was attended with no crack of apparition nor any 'whoosh' of portkey arrival. In any case, both were fully warded against.

The magnificent chair looked t have used up generations of master wood carvers working in black walnut, and showed scenes that might have entertained him in other circumstances. It was upholstered in fine Corinthian leather, which had been hand softened for generations, or so it looked.

The man was himself of a piece with the Chair. He himself looked as if nothing less would have been an appropriate setting.

Voldemort's wand was in his hand even as his eyes focused on the 'muggle filth' sitting in a chair that should be HIS!

A silent AK was his automatic response, although the muggle remain un-perturbed by either its launching or its arrival. The green spell seemed to vanish into the man who steadfastly refused to fall over dead.

The Dark Lord stared at his wand with a look of total betrayal on his face. He collapsed back into his chair from shock, still staring at his yew wand, now his "yewsless" wand.

The immaculately dressed man arose leisurely and walked over to Voldemort and placed a number of documents into the claw like fingers of his non-wand hand.

Although he had little sensation in this body, the thumb of that hand began to feel intense cold. Looking down he saw the top item was a muggle style business card, white letters on black, and the only part he could make out said

**WOLFRAM & HART**

**Attorneys at Law**

"Mr. Riddle." The stranger's rich baritone voice seemed to fill the room in a way Tom had never been able to. There was no hint of an echo, as if the laws of physics had been suspended. "You will find there all of the paperwork, injunctions in courts of competent jurisdiction, to stand down your pathetic attempts to intimidate the worlds, Magical, Muggle (as you call it), or Trans-Dimensional. You have been found to be 'out of bounds' in all cases, and while we would normally expect to be rewarding your actions in due course, you have had the arrogance to try to defy the Destiny of all mortal beings. You have been served."

"One of those documents requires that you summon your Horcruxes here and now and turn them over to me for disposal."

"You may, of course refuse, but the result will NOT be gratifying."

At that moment, as Fate would have it, the door opened and Lucius Malfoy stepped into the room. Seeing an unbound and un-tortured muggle there, he patronus-ed for the other Death Eaters present to follow him, and charged into the throne room, firing lethal curses at the man's back.

These were no more effective than the Dark Lord's own AK had been, and succeeded only in attracting the gaze of those otherworldly eyes, which somehow froze Lucius in his tracks when they fell on him.

With a negligent wave of his hand the 'despicable muggle' somehow had the DEs all formed up into ranks, as if on inspection parade, their wands out, in salute!

"How say you Mr. Riddle. Shall I take these useless fools off your hands so you can retire and become a gardener, or a fisherman? Perhaps a shoe salesman?"

A scream of incoherent rage escaped Voldemort's thin lips at that point, but he found he could not otherwise move this body, nor would his wand respond to his commands.

"You really ARE a Riddle, as you were named, did you ever realize that?"

"Gifted with immense power, an incredible mind, and a (once) magnificent body, you have managed to turn all your assets into this paltry excuse for an "evil over-lordship". Hiding in a moldy manor house, served by poltroons and fools. Such a paradox."

**"REAL EVIL™,** Mr. Riddle, lives in luxury beyond your ability to imagine."

"You have no concept of what REAL EVIL™ is all about, and I have neither time nor patience to teach you. You have been offered a chance to have the rest of you pathetic life, before meeting 'THAT WHICH AWAITS YOU™'. Since you have clearly rejected that option, we will proceed, as we had expected to."

"Unlike Dumbledore we give no "second chances", and you have wasted your first."

With a lazy wave of his manicured hand a small whirlwind materialized between the muggle and Tommy Riddle, and as it spun down, each of the Horcrux bearing items fell out of it onto the floor. A hideously deformed infant was there also, a temporary construct bearing the soul-fragment already removed from Harry Potter. Nagini struggled to strike, or then slither away, but neither was any more effect than the efforts of her master to do.

Tommy's mouth worked and he then spit in frustration. The glob of mucus, aimed at the toe of a shoe that had cost a year's tuition at Hogwarts, landed just short, having stopped in mid-air, as it were.

"Jamison". A livered imp bearing a wisp of smoky atmosphere about him, appeared beside the muggle.

"Go to General Headquarters and tell the Operations Demon of the Watch that there is a "White Room" situation. The message for the Senior Partner on duty is that "Operation Potter is complete", and be sure to convey that the table is set for our Senior Partner's dinner tonight."

After the imp disappeared, leaving a tiny hint of brimstone cologne behind it, the muggle waved his chair away into nothingness.

"I could leave you in ignorance of what is coming. I could."

"But there is nothing merciful about me, that I should spare you even an instant of horror. I do not recall whether the Wolf, the Ram, or the Hart is on duty tonight, but it really doesn't matter. When whichever one it is becomes peckish, he will consume your lackeys first, as his appetizer course."

The muggle walked over and looked Lucius Malfoy up and down with a hint of a sadistic leer. "Lucy, you always did try to look 'good enough to eat', so your paramours would enjoy their encounters. Your wife excepted, of course. Well today you have finally achieved your purpose, once and for all."

Turning back towards the frozen would-be Dark Lord, he spoke again.

"You will get to watch as a REAL Dark Lord consumes your lackeys, body and soul. Then, after he dines on your Horcruxes, you will become the main course, and you will finally get you fondest wish. You will become a Dark Lord, or at least, part of one. They say 'You are what you eat'. Well, you will become bits and pieces of The Dark Lord, atoms here and there, in his being."

" And what he finds no use for, he will _**excrete**_, in due time."

Without a sound, the menacing muggle disappeared, but the stasis that all there were bound in remained, as they contemplated a fate worse than death, even death by burial in dragon dung.

For the most part, they now knew, they were fated to become Dark Lord dung.


End file.
